


walk with me to a place of trust

by crackthesky



Series: secret home i made and found [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (Geralt getting shaved), Clothed Sex, Cock Warming, F/M, Hand Jobs, lil bit of cum play, lil bit of knife play, no beta we die like men, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: bare your neck, and perhaps - bare your heart.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Series: secret home i made and found [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674910
Comments: 10
Kudos: 200
Collections: Explicit Stories





	walk with me to a place of trust

“Tilt your head back.”

Your words are soft in the hush of your home, and you keep still in front of the chair he's seated in, because you know what you are asking.

Geralt considers you, his eyes like summer honey, soft and gold and slow on your skin. The fire crackles softly, hissing and spitting as it gnaws at the wood, the sound filling the quiet. He reaches out and rubs a thumb over your cheekbone, his calloused thumb scraping against your skin, and your breath catches between your teeth.

He tilts his head back.

The thick column of his throat reminds you of ancient pillars, stained by the marks you’ve sucked into his skin, dark like the mulberry wine you’d kissed from his lips the other night. You brush your lips over his jawline like a dusting of snow, something soft that will melt away within moments. 

You set the dagger against his skin carefully. It’s a delicate thing, the bone hilt inlaid with chips of seaglass, the ocean condensed into iridescent scales that shimmer in the firelight. Bone has always felt fitting to you. It’s one of the few remnants of court, a skeleton all your own.

His stubble scrapes away easily beneath the blade, the hair softened by the oil gleaming on his skin. He swallows.

You work rhythmically, baring his skin with small, easy strokes. It’s quiet, like the breath before a winter storm, the air tight with promise. Your hand is steady.

You tilt Geralt’s chin with the pad of your finger, a gentle nudge. He obliges you, stretches to the side, the muscles in his thick neck pulling tight, rippling beneath his skin. It feels like moving the earth. As if a stone monument has yielded.

Once you’re finished, you set the dagger down and stroke your palm across his freshly shaven skin. His throat bobs beneath your hand. You press a kiss against the corner of his jaw. “There,” you murmur. “Done.”

You wipe the oil from Geralt’s skin with a warm rag, sweep the damp cotton against him like slow-falling snow. He catches you by the wrist as you start to pull back. The kiss he lays against the delicate skin of your inner wrist sends heat creeping up your spine. You gaze down at him, at the amber of his eyes and the blade of his cheekbone in the fire’s low light, and you ache for him. _Thank you_ , you don’t say, but you know he hears it anyway.

Geralt pulls you in front of him, gathers the thin material of your nightshirt in his big hands, his knuckles brushing against your hips. He presses a kiss between your breasts. His lips are a brand through the cloth, burning hot against your skin. “You’re good with a blade.”

“Armorer’s daughter,” you remind him.

“Plenty of incompetent armorers out there,” he says. “To say nothing of their daughters.”

“I didn’t know I was being tested.”

Geralt grunts.

You trail your fingers over the ridge of his knuckles, trace them into the dips between each knucklebone. “Should I show you how well I sharpen a sword?” you tease, nudging between his thighs to press against the line of his cock, feeling him twitch against you. “Or is reminding you how well I handle one enough?”

“Fuck,” he says, his voice gone to gravel, and then he is hauling you up to straddle his thick thigh, rucking up your nightshirt to settle at your hips. You breathe a little laugh and cradle his face in your hands. The kiss is soft, all drifting snow caught in a lazy winter breeze. You don’t think you’ll ever be over the feel of him, how solid he is beneath you even when his mouth is gentle on yours. 

You nip at his lower lip and he rumbles like a ship running aground. The softness melts away; he devours you, teases your breath from you with his tongue, his hands tightening on you. Your hands slip into his hair, fist tight at his nape.

Geralt tugs you close, dragging your cunt against the length of his thigh, and the pleasure crackles up your spine like lightning. You keen into his mouth. He’s a blizzard rolling over your horizon, overwhelming your senses until he is all you can see, all you can feel. 

He kisses like he’ll never get enough of you, all tongue and teeth and something that tastes like fear. One large hand cups your breast, and the stroke of his thumb over your pebbled nipple builds on the embers of your desire, makes your cunt slick with want. 

“Can fucking smell you,” he grates out against your lips, and your hips shove forward at the sound of him, your clit grinding against the wide muscle of his thigh. The moan pours from you, and he drinks it down. 

Geralt presses a kiss at your jawline, and then he is scraping his teeth against your collarbone, dragging slow and careful over the ridge of it. His mouth trickles like fire across you. The heat of it closes over your nipple, and he sucks, the flimsy material of your nightshirt pulling wet against you. The rasp of the cloth under his tongue melts through you, and your cunt pulses. You can feel yourself dripping, your slick running hot down your cunt. 

“Geralt,” you gasp, the edges of your voice rough. He pulls off of your breast and the cool air against the wet fabric tightens your nipple even more, the feel of it slipping down your spine. You roll your hips against him, drag your cunt rough and slow against his thigh. 

“There you go,” he grunts. Your nightshirt crinkles as he takes hold of your hips. He drives you against him in staccato thrusts, pressing his thigh up into your cunt until you are leaning forward, panting against his shoulder. He moves you with ease, rocks you back and forth on the thick plane of his thigh until you’re keening. You’re dripping on him, the fabric of his breeches rasping wet against your bare cunt.

Your thighs start to tremble.

Geralt grinds up into you, tilting your hips down with his tight grip, until your clit is caught against his thigh, and then he goes still. You bite out a curse, the sound of it a sharp winter wind, and start to rut against him without thought, pulling back from him and steadying yourself with your hands pressed against the muscle of him. His cock is pulsing, a thick, rigid line in his breeches, just shy of your hands. You rut wildly, sharp bucks of your hips until the pleasure breaks in you, cracks open like ice on a winter lake. The feel of it roars through you, a forest fire running unchecked, consuming everything in its path. 

Your voice splinters on Geralt’s name as you cum. You clench down on nothing, your hips jerking against him as the pleasure licks up your veins, lightning striking ground in the middle of the swelter of a bonfire. Your moan is a low, drawn-out thing, silk rasping against stone. 

“Always sound so godsdamned pretty,” Geralt says. “Could listen to you cum forever.”

You fall still, leaning forward to press your forehead against his broad shoulder. He tugs you forward and you mewl as your tender clit scrapes across the soaked fabric of his breeches. It flickers through you, pleasure with the slightest bite of pain melding together. You end up pressed against his cock; you can feel the throb of it against your folds.

“What was that about reminding me how well you handle a sword?” Geralt asks, sounding far too pleased with himself.

“Fuck off,” you say into his shoulder. You nip at him through the fabric of his shirt as you start to unlace his breeches, wrapping your hand around the heated girth of him. He makes a low noise that sends heat pooling through you again.

You pull him out of his breeches. His cock juts out proudly, flushed ruddy. You trace a finger along the pulsing vein and then sit back. You push yourself up just enough to drag your palm against the wet of your cunt, hissing at the biting spark of the slip against your clit. A groan creaks out of Geralt as you wrap your hand, slick with your own cum, back around him. 

“ _Fuck_.”

You kiss the curse from his lips, your mouth messy against his. You stroke him, his cock heavy and heated against the skin of your palm, and he hisses into your mouth as you twist at the end, thumbing against the ridge of his cockhead. He bucks up into your hand, just slightly, and you feather your fingers down the length of him. 

You keep stroking, tightening your fingers around his cock. Geralt is always a pretty picture, but sometimes you think you like him best like this, gleaming with a slight sheen of sweat in the firelight, the tendons of his neck cording like steel when you swipe the pad of your thumb through the pre-cum pearling at the tip of his cock. 

Geralt growls as you slow your movement. He hauls you up and over him once more, so you’re straddling him, your soaked cunt smearing against his cock. He thrusts, his tip sliding against your clit. It drags a whine from somewhere deep in you, the burn of pleasure running hot through your veins, edged with a bite of steel. 

His kiss is heavy, a consuming thing, and there is a question in it. You nod, just slightly, and then he is spearing deep into you. You cry out as he splits you, your walls fluttering. Sensation fizzes along your spine, prickling like hail across your skin.

“Good?” he asks. His voice is stone against stone. Rasping, scraping from his throat.

“Yes.” You wrap your arms around his neck, press a biting kiss at the junction of his jaw and throat. The salt of his skin is just beneath the tang of the oil. 

Geralt pulls you in close, your thighs bracketing his hips, and fucks up hard. His cock scrapes along your walls, and you quiver around him, still sensitive. 

“Fuck, darling, you’re always so tight.”

You clench. He groans, shoves up hard into you until your breasts are bouncing. The kiss he pulls you into is scalding, all slow hot summer cutting through winter’s chill. 

Geralt falls into a rhythm that has you gasping, each thrust of his hips hitting hard against you. He’s thick and heavy in you. It feels like he fills you entirely, splits you open and remakes you around him. Sparks skitter against your spine. You flex around him, and he drags against the velvet grasp of your cunt, sliding against a space inside you that lights you up like a bonfire.

His lips quirk against yours as you curse, your voice scratchy with pleasure. He snaps his hips up and there are pleas tumbling from your lips as you fist your hand in his shirt. You pull the fabric taut, trying to ground yourself against the onslaught of his cock spearing deep. 

“Let me hear you,” Geralt rumbles, and then there’s a large hand between your legs, spreading your slick up to your clit. He circles the swollen nub firmly, and you shatter, the incandescent heat of a star streaking through you. 

Geralt slows to a rolling rhythm as you clench around him, his jaw gritted. You whimper his name, and he hisses. He fucks up into you hard, almost wild, and you flutter around him, clench each time he pulls from you, let him drag through the tight, wet walls of your cunt. 

He grunts, the sound vibrating through his broad chest, and you can feel the shiver in his muscles. His cock jerks, throbs hot inside you, and then his thighs are flexing beneath you as he pushes as deep as he can go, bottoming out. His cum floods you, runs hot through your cunt until it is dripping from you, squeezing out around his cock. 

You can feel his cock still twitching in the snug fit of your cunt as you collapse forward onto him. The sensation of it rolls over your spine like the spark that leaps from metal in the winter, stinging and overwhelming, sharp but still softened at the edges by the pleasure still warming your bones. Your nightshirt is soaked with sweat. You press your face into his broad shoulder, panting.

Geralt is still splitting you wide, his cock hard inside you. His hands are gentle on your hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles. He shifts you gently, starting to pull out, and you hiss. He goes still.

“Stay,” you rasp. “Like you deep inside me.”

He groans, low and deep. “Sweetheart,” he says. “Fuck.”

You clench around him, feel the swell of his cockhead brush the space that sends those sparks skittering up your spine. It’s like standing too close to the forge. Too much, but mesmerizing in the intensity of it.

“Give me a bit,” you say, still drifting in the afterglow of your falling star, still feeling like heat streaking through the night sky. 

Geralt slides a massive hand up the back of your nightshirt, strokes gentle across your skin. He traces small patterns against you. You sigh into the feeling. He twitches inside you, his cock pulsing. 

You pull back, just slightly, enough to look at him. The shift of his cock, how he slips just a bit deeper, reverberates through you. You bite back on the moan. Geralt grunts and meets your eyes. Those eyes, you think, those eyes gold like a locket with secrets caught between the clasps. 

You slip a fingertip beneath his chin and wait. 

Geralt considers you, and then he tilts his head back. You watch the play of muscles in his throat, the way they dance as he swallows, and you trace your fingertip against a small patch of stubble that lingers just beneath his chin. 

“I missed a spot,” you murmur. 

He catches your hand with his, pulls your fingers away from his vulnerable throat. He presses a kiss against your fingertip. You catch your breath between your teeth.

“You won’t next time,” Geralt says. 

_Thank you_ , you don’t say, but you know he hears you anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> i uh. wrote a lot of this during work. this is why i can't work from home.
> 
> title is from chelsea wolfe's 'iron moon'
> 
> idk i was feeling spicy but also the tiniest bit soft and this just sort of happened!! i have a lot of weird feelings about unspoken vulnerability when both parties are aware of it.


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